


La Vie En Rose

by pinkishwish



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Boys In Love, Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, M/M, Not So Healthy Relationship, Pre-Canon, kind of a slow burn?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 21:37:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21143597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkishwish/pseuds/pinkishwish
Summary: Nobody ever cried in the circus except him. Lila wept once after Jeremiah left. Then she beat him. He didn’t know what to do with Bruce and his crying, but he didn’t like it. Jerome grabbed his wrist and squeezed until his knuckles turned white.AU where Bruce and Jerome meet as children.





	La Vie En Rose

Jerome wiped his hands on his costume. His head itched from the drying globs of product his mother slathered into his hair hours ago. He drummed his fingers on the desk in front of him while he waited for the performers to return. A circus hand smiled weakly in his direction from the other side of the table. 

“You look a bit, erm,” _Unwell._ She opened her mouth to say something else, but the curtain to the makeup tent flew open to mark the completion of the first act.

“Remember what I told you.” Jerome blinked in the direction of the voice, which emerged from the main tent. “Rat on me and you’ll regret it.” Owen grumbled as he stepped in front of Jerome, digging his fingers into his shoulder as he did. To his fortune, Owen didn’t notice the blood spatter that covered Jerome's costume. 

Jerome nodded furiously, widened his eyes and trembled his lip. His expression sunk flatly on his face once Owen left through the backdoor. Jerome unclenched his jaw, which ached from the strain. His fingernails dug into his palms so hard they drew blood. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the circus hand shuffled in her seat. Her eyes flickered over him. She swallowed and folded her hands neatly in her lap where she tugged at her own fingers.  
  
“What’re _ you _ scared for?” He slipped on his gloves, tightened his bowtie and pulled his shoulders pulled back. He shoved past her on his way out.   
  
The lights glared as he emerged from the dressing room.  
  
“Spectacular!” A live Cobra slithered around his mother’s waist, wrapped around her curves as she swayed and danced across the stage. 

The air smelled like sweat and animal piss. Jerome stared at the fat that hung over her waistband, waiting for his cue. A ringing settled in his ears. 

The audience gasped in the main tent as the ringmaster urged them to silence themselves for the next ‘spectacular’ performance, the next ‘spectacular’ performer. When Jerome stepped out from behind the curtain, the crowd practically squealed in excitement, held their breaths for what came next. He held a large, cloaked box in one hand, which he gently tossed up and down. It rattled loudly, unbeknownst to the audience, because of a large bell placed underneath the wood. 

“_ Spectacular _! What could possibly be in that crate?” When Jerome set it down, he grinned through the thick greasepaint that suffocated his skin and bowed as he gestured towards the box. 

He made a show of struggling to get the crate open. His feigned embarrassment that caused the crowd to erupt in laughter, but slid the top off with ease soon after.  
  
His mother practically cartwheeled over, lifting a small flute out of the opening on top, and she connected their arms so that the cobra slithered across to Jerome.

It became more and more excited as it moved, snapped at his face. 

Lila handed it off in such a way that it gained easier access to his neck than it should have. From where he stood, it looked like it could coil around his windpipe in the drop of a hat. 

He didn’t think his death was included in the family-friendly script, but Jerome digressed. His heart beat against his chest in what he assumed was fear, but his lips curled in excitement when it hissed. 

The haunting melody Lila played on the flute put the beast at ease, and it rested its head on his shoulder, slithering down his back and towards the box. 

“Give it up for our spectacu…” Jerome stared at his mother, the ringing bright as it drowned out all sound. He saw scarlet, even as the lights glowed a screeching green, yellow, purple. They bowed and left the stage. 

_ There should have been two snakes in the act, not one, two._ He thought this as his mother shook him and tore his gelled red hair out of his scalp. The dead snake stared pathetically at the wall next to him when she threw it at his abdomen and missed. His face paid for that. So did his limbs. And his ribs. Lila was shrieking, wailing. 

_ “You gutted my baby!” _ Something seemed a bit ironic about that, he thought this as his mother punched him in the lungs. He wheezed out something like a laugh. He crossed his arms over his face and stared pathetically at the door as she kicked him in the nose, then the ribs, again and again. 

That night, Jerome laid in his pile of blankets while Lila fucked the living daylights out of Owen ten feet away. He clenched his pillow over his ears and tried to control his breathing, tried to shove down the urge to pick up the broken glass on the floor from the bottle Owen shattered on his head and stab _ stabstabthem _ until they choked on their blood. 

Another show, another city, another beating. “_ Spectacular!” The ringmaster threw his arms in the air, the crowd went wild. ‘Gotham put your hands together for Lila Valeska-‘ _

_ Spectacular! Spectacular! _

Owen glared at him. The lights glared, bore into his skin. Lila almost didn’t call the snake off. He didn’t know anything. He didn’t know about the drugs. He didn’t see anything. 

Alphonse Grayson’s acrobatics stole the show and captured a place between Lila’s legs that night (along with the rest of Gotham while they stayed in that wretched place). Owen slammed Jerome’s head into his caravan to regain his mother’s attention until it became tender on one side. He didn’t know what was funnier, that she didn’t come or that she did when he began to dump her coke on the pavement.  
  
He laughed till his eyes bulged from his face, bumping into families that pulled their children away from him on his way to nowhere. Even the outskirts of Gotham smelled like smoke and shit. 

Jerome walked until his feet hurt and it occurred to him how wet his face was under the clown mask he wore, how much he wheezed and sniffled. He didn’t think he was laughing anymore. He hated everyone, hated Jeremiah for leaving him there, hated his mother, hated Owen and his uncle and Alphonse, hated everyone. People deserved to die. Needed to. 

He coughed through another bout of sobs and wheezes, overwhelmed by the scent of the thick grease at the concessions stands. 

“Excuse me!” Someone nudged his shoulder and he jerked away. They pulled back and stared at him, “You’re the one who handled those snakes, right?” He quickly hopped to his feet and found his voice.  
  
“I sure am,” He felt far away, “And you, you must be, lemme guess… Ah…” The boy stared at him in wonder, “Bruce.” He felt his smile returning, a bit teasingly. 

“How did you figure that out?” Jerome’s eyes shot to the embroidery on the boy’s school uniform. 

“The snakes told me.” He shrugged and plopped back down on the grass. To his pleasure, Bruce took the spot next to him. 

“I think you just looked at my shirt pocket.” Jerome’s eye twitched. Nothing his act couldn’t recover from. He took in a deep breath through his mouth, trying to avoid sniffling in front of a stranger, “I thought your act was amazing. You didn’t even look scared.” 

“You wouldn’t know that through a mask, would you Bruce?” Jerome shot back, bubbles of laughter rising in his chest. He pushed them down, slapped on a straight face Bruce couldn’t see to avoid the shame that came with his giggles. 

Bruce frowned.

“I suppose I wouldn’t.”

What are you doing here all alone?” 

“Alfred’s getting me popcorn to feed the ducks.” Jerome arched a brow, _ who the hell is Alfred? _

“Who the hell is Alfred? And why do you want to feed those nasty things? They poop everywhere and make noise.” Jerome curled his lip. 

“It doesn’t matter. I like them. What’s your name?” Bruce asked, “You know _ my _name.” The boy tilted his head, perfectly poised with perfect posture and a perfectly set face. His dark locks bounced with his movement. A chuckle from Jerome, muffled by his mask. Perfect perfect perfect. 

“I’ll decide what matters.” He felt a bit silly saying that, but poking at Bruce was fun. They sat in silence. Bruce glanced over his shoulder at a figure who Jerome assumed was ‘Alfred’.  
  
“I’ll be leaving now.” He mumbled as he stood. The moonlight made Bruce seem paler than he really was.  
  
“I’m Jerome.” He said quickly. 

Bruce paused momentarily, muttering the name as if he were testing it, then continued his trek back into glowing golden lights, cotton candy, and giggling children. A kindred looking older man waited patiently for him. 

“Oh, I hope you feel better by the way.” 

Jerome’s breath caught in his throat. 

x

“Alfred is teaching me how to defend myself.” The circus came to Gotham quarterly, staying for a month at a time. Jerome never lived for anything before, fantasized about what awaited him on the other side. But now he lived to see Bruce, just catch a glimpse of him at the shows. Nobody treated him like Bruce treated him.

“Show me. Hit me.” He licked his lips. Bruce stood and threw a well-formed punch into the air, ignoring the latter part of his request. Jerome slapped his fist hard and kicked him in the shin. Jerome snickered. Silly Bruce. He smacked the back of Bruce’s head for good measure. Bruce’s hair seldom fell loose like it did when they first met. Jerome hated that, wanted to fix it himself. His fingers twitched.

“That’s not fair! It’s rude.” Bruce snapped, rubbing his shin. He started to do that a lot lately, the snapping and brooding. They sat in the makeup tent together. Bruce’s eyes used to lighten up at the thought of going backstage. He didn’t care much for it now, saw it too often. Jerome didn’t know how to feel about that. 

And Jerome always looked over his shoulder before he brought Bruce into any of the tents, because he knew that sooner or later someone would follow them and he wouldn’t hear or feel the end of it.

“That’s the spirit,” Jerome said. He drummed a beat on the side of his chair. His legs dangled lazily over the edge of the table, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Bruce stared at it until his face unscrewed into the numb sheet he took to wearing just this year. Jerome hated it, “Let’s do something fun.”

Bruce tilted his head, reserved as ever, hands neat in his lap. Jerome clenched his jaw.

“Let’s leave. Let’s go into the city.”

“I told Alfred I’d be _ here _.” Jerome squeezed the leg of the chair until the edges pressed lines into his palms. Who cared about what he told Alfred? Jerome sure didn’t.

“So?” He said through his teeth, “I’m bored.” Bruce shook his head and Jerome imagined it exploding.

“I’m not.” Bruce shot back. Jerome felt his anger melt away. He raised a brow, leaned into Bruce’s space.

“You aren’t?” He asked, bringing his hand to his chin in mock-thought. His lips curled into a Cheshire grin and Bruce pulled away from him, narrowed his eyes.

“I’m not.”

“Well, that’s fine and dandy, Brucie,” Jerome stood tall and wide, like he would on stage, and spun on his heel, “But I’m gonna head out and, mm, steal something.” He took two steps out of the tent before Bruce shouted a ‘fine!’ and followed after him.

“Just, don’t, don’t steal from anyone.”

Jerome rolled his eyes. He didn’t plan on it anyways, not being the best thief, but what sort of person thought that mattered in Gotham of all places? People stole things all the time. If Jerome actually cared for trinkets and cash, why shouldn’t he?

“Yeah, yeah.” He saw Lila kissing a clown in the backroom on their way out. He didn’t think she stayed after the show. She typically headed back to their caravan to screw someone. Jerome actually thought she may be fighting with Owen because he barely saw him around these days. Good riddance. Owen got off on breaking his bones.

“Jerome,” Bruce started, snapping Jerome out of his thoughts. He looked far away. They made their way through the busy paths and vendors. Under the boy’s furrowed brows, Jerome swore his eyes were wet. But Bruce’s face strained like he was trying to push his tears back, “A lot can go wrong. When you steal. People get hurt.” He didn’t know what Bruce meant, didn’t press.

Nobody ever cried in the circus except him. Lila wept once after Jeremiah left. Then she beat him. He didn’t know what to do with Bruce and his crying, but he didn’t like it. Jerome grabbed his wrist and squeezed until his knuckles turned white.

He loosened his grip when he saw Bruce flinch next to him. Anxiety fluttered in his chest and he giggled. They stepped in silence after that. He decided to focus on the city instead. 

Gotham stole his breath, both literally and figuratively. On one hand, the air drew his breath out of his lungs. The city smelled worse than the outskirts and the homeless lined the streets. 

On the other hand, the buildings stood tall and gleamed more than anything Jerome ever saw, short of Bruce’s eyes, or the stars, and he spent most of his time in the city staring and spinning around to stare more. 

They stopped at a boutique run by someone Bruce knew. It sold dresses and purses and the like. Jerome tapped his foot, bored of waiting for Bruce to finish talking with the shopkeeper.

“Who’s your friend?” The man asked, sugar-sweet. He gnawed the inside of his wrinkled cheek.

Before Jerome even opened his mouth, the man stared him up and down and pressed his lips together.

He glanced between Jerome and Bruce, brushed back the little strands of hair on his sweat-soaked head. Jerome made his way to the back of the store where he couldn’t be seen. It all seemed forced from that point on, the ‘how are you’s and ‘the weather is sublime, Mr. Wayne!’s. Bruce put on a mask of his own, echoing the same dull garbage. Jerome scowled, it wasn’t Bruce. 

“Very sorry about your parents.” The man finally blurted, glasses lopsided and slipping down the bridge of his arched nose. Jerome perked up from where he tried to set some slippers on fire. He shoved the matches he found outside in his pocket for later. Bruce paused, thanked the man, and left to fetch Jerome. He felt a pang of something for Bruce, but he could never place these sorts of things.

Not that they mattered anyways. Though Bruce was already leaving with him, he grabbed Bruce by the hand and pulled him out of the shop. He sent a look at the shopkeeper that made the man shudder. He shouldn’t have put Bruce in that position. 

“Let go.” Bruce sighed when they were far enough from the shop. He pried Jerome’s fingers away. Jerome felt a stab in his chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He tore his hand away from Bruce’s, crossed his arms.

Bruce’s eyes began to spill over, melt into his face. He rubbed harshly at his face. Jerome didn’t know what to do. He felt like there was something he could say to make Bruce stop. He wanted Bruce to stop, “Let’s just go.” 

x

Bruce didn’t show for the next three days. Jerome stayed up waiting for him, felt stupid and peeked out his window for him. He found a small shoebox full of Lila’s old journals. He threw them at the wall and watched them scatter around the side of the caravan. 

He heard a clamor outside. He jumped to his feet, heart caught in his throat, and saw Owen, drunkenly stumbling around the debris around their caravan. The man called for Lila a few times, looked like he’d pass out. Jerome wondered if gutting him would feel like gutting the snake.

He laid until he heard moaning and crashing outside his curtain. They would force him to clean up for them later.

He pressed his pillow into his ears until he couldn’t feel the blood in them. After what felt like forever, he realized it wouldn’t stop and fell into a shallow sleep, their muffled tryst echoing in his head as he did.

By the time morning came, Jerome’s knees hurt from kneeling. He tried to sweep as much glass as he could into the small dustpan his mom owned. If she stepped on any of her mess, she would throttle him. Her _ and _her lover. He felt bile in his throat when she emerged with Alphonse and someone he didn’t recognize.

Alcohol soaked into his pants. He only owned two pairs that didn’t belong to the circus.

Jerome’s nostrils flared, and he trembled uncontrollably. He flashed them a tight smile when he realized they were staring at him. The stranger buckled up his belt. He eyed Jerome a few more times before he left. Alphonse nudged his face aside with his boot on his way out. Jerome almost cut his toes off with the glass in his hands but realized too late that he dug it into his own skin.

If he so much as looked at his mother, he knew he would skin the bitch alive in front of everyone.

The alcohol burned into his fingers as he wiped it up.

Jerome reckoned his mother made up with Owen when he heard them snorting coke and felt the bottles on his bare skin. They dragged him out of the bathroom, where he’d been stripping for a shower.

“Welcome back.” He giggled through bubbles of spit and blood. A fist made its acquaintance with his cheek. _ Spectacular. _

x

Bruce had the nerve to show his face in the circus again. Jerome spotted him when the snake wrapped its sweet way around his neck. He saw stars, felt true love, and his mother blew into her fluteand it slithered back into the box.

Bruce, beautiful, wonderful Bruce. Jerome hated him more than anyone. Especially as he emerged from the tent and saw nothing, no one. Just an endless cascade of people flowing through the main tent.

x

“Gotham, be prepared to be dazzled!” He snagged a costume more like the ringmasters, with tight pants that puffed out on the sides and a big black bow tie smack dab in the center of the collar. The pants nicely hugged his waist and he enjoyed how the cotton cuffs wrapped around his wrists. It felt better than the cheap fabric his other costumes, “The act you’ve all been waiting for, drumroll please…”

He mimicked a drumroll to the best of his ability on the tree bark with two sticks. Jerome hopped up the side of the tree, towards the nest of birds. The babies chirped and slurped worms. He grinned, reaching for one. His arms were longer now, and he came short of touching it when he heard a shout.

“Jerome! Leave them alone.” Bruce demanded. He knew Bruce followed him, for the first time in almost a year Bruce followed him, his one-man audience. 

And soon, Bruce would be wild with applause, adoration, or rage, whichever came first. He adored them all equally, played no favorites. 

“We’re going to make them stars Brucie.” He grabbed at the nest again, and chortled at Bruce’s clenched fists, “Fly little birdies, fly. Our first act? Acrobatics! Will little- ah what should we name him Bruce?” Bruce glowered.

“I said leave them alone.”

“Yawn.” Jerome tapped his chin, “Well, Jeff then. His name is Jeff. And mommy bird, I’ll name her ah… Jezebel. Lotsa ‘J’s. Ha. Anyways,” He scrounged up his best look of worry, arched his brows up and put his hands to his cheeks as he stared Bruce directly in the eye, “Will _ Jeff _be able to fly before his intestines hit the pavement?” Bruce bared his teeth, started to climb after him.

Jerome snickered, grinned at him, and his fingers almost brushed against the nest when Bruce latched onto his ankle and dragged him down the tree, his gloves splintering as he instinctively scrambled up, tried to gain footing again. His head hit the snow-coated grass and Bruce loomed over him, looking ready to punch his lights out.

“_Don’t hurt them _.” He thought Bruce sounded more like himself than ever and it gave him chills. 

Jerome stared at the woolen coat he wore, shivered and pulled himself up into an uncomfortably close sitting position.

“Or what?” Bruce leaned in, and Jerome thought they might kiss. He felt his stomach twist. He curled his fingers into the grass, even though the snow nipped at them and sapped away their heat.

“I don’t know.” Bruce admitted. But that was enough. Bruce had an earnest sort of way about him that Jerome liked to listen to sometimes. 

To his dismay, Bruce took off his coat and placed it partially on Jerome’s shoulders, so that it covered the two of them. 

They sat arm-to-arm like that for a while, drawing warmth from one another. 

Bruce brushed his fingers over Jerome’s and rested his hand so that their fingers almost touched. 

x

“Have you ever liked someone?” Bruce’s face flushed beet red. His eyes darted wildly around the frost flaked grass they sat on. Jerome stared at the nest. He thought the birds might be dead. They hatched at such a strange time. Yesterday, when Bruce pulled him off the tree, what he saw looked awful. _ Maybe mommy bird slept around and forgot about them. _

“Yeah of course.” He said absentmindedly, trying to get a good look at the top of the nest. After a few tries, he realized he couldn’t from his angle.

“There’s this girl…”

“A girl?” Jerome muttered, starting up the tree. Bruce shifted where he sat.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Jerome glanced over at him and blinked.

“What?” He peered into the nest and sure enough, two of the birds lay dead. Bruce stopped talking. Their carcasses went untouched by mites because of the cold. The last looked sick, eyes bulging out of its head, but it still writhed and squeaked. Its chest rose and fell. He reached for it, picked it up and felt its small heartbeat on his palm, saw its breath puff in the air.

Bruce watched him anxiously. Probably thought he’d toss it off the side of the tree. Instead, Jerome skidded down the bark and showed him the creature cupped in his gloved palm.

“It’s freezing.” Bruce mumbled. Jerome knew it wouldn’t make it through the next hour. It barely twitched in his hand.

“Starving too. It’s gonna die.” Jerome chimed. Bruce shot him a pinched look.

“No. It won’t.” Bruce gestured for Jerome to follow, and with an exaggerated sigh, he did. He trailed Bruce through the circus, though it became hard to keep up with his pace at times, especially through the hoards of people that got in his way.

He focused only on Bruce, on his walk, on his figure, and his determination.

They found his grandpa on a bench, reading a book with a title so long Jerome couldn’t make it out. He decided he would start reading Jeremiah’s books so that next time he could understand it and impress Bruce.

“Alfred.” Bruce called out. The man stood immediately, face brightened at the sight of Bruce. Jerome felt a stab in his chest. Why didn’t anyone look at him like that? He supposed Bruce did.

“Master Bruce. And this must be your friend. Mr. Jerome Valeska, yes?” The man made his way over to them, nodding at Jerome. Jerome didn’t have a grandfather, but he didn’t think they called their grandkids ‘master’.

“You have a butler?” Jerome whispered. He glowered at Bruce when he nodded. What else wasn’t Bruce telling him? He knew Bruce had money, didn’t know he had enough to afford a slave. Bruce pointed at the bird that Jerome held.

Jerome shoved the thing in the butler’s face to divert his gaze. The old man wouldn’t stop staring at him.

He usually liked the audience, but he didn’t like how Alfred looked at him. Stared like he saw him, really saw him. He hardly knew what that meant, but he knew it was true. Alfred looked more concerned about Jerome than the dying chick.

“It’s been through quite a bit, I see.” The butler commented idly, leaning forward to get a better look at Jerome.

“We need to get it treatment. We can save it.” Bruce insisted.

“You can’t save them all, Master Bruce,” Alfred sighed. He placed a gentle hand on Bruce’s shoulder, “but I suppose you can try.” Alfred nudged Bruce along and Jerome took that as a sign to follow.

He felt out of place following them into their car, wearing a bright red costume suit that would surely draw eyes outside the circus, had a thick layer of greasepaint on his eyes and lips. He thought about the two bird carcasses and wondered if the chick would be better off joining its siblings.

Its neck, he decided, could snap with just a little pressure. But he cradled it instead, because the fact that the bird was already dying drained all the fun out of it. Bruce flashed him a small smile from where he sat next to Jerome, seemed hopeful about the feathered lump.

Jerome beamed back, all teeth.

The car smelled like mint. He eventually became bored with the passing buildings and his eyes found the tip of Alfred’s scarf, slung over the back of the driver’s seat. He lifted his free hand to tug it, but Bruce snatched it halfway through its mission and squeezed it reassuringly.

“We’ll save it.” He told Jerome with a curt nod. Bruce thought he cared. Oh how sweet.

Alfred’s eyes flickered over him in the mirror.

“So, are you one of the performers, Mr. Valeska?”

“Well, of course.” Jerome tangled his fingers through Bruce’s. 

“Snakes was it?” Alfred seemed too stuffy to Jerome. It was unbearable.

“He does an amazing act with his mother.” Bruce said, “the snake really looks like it’s going to hurt him, but at the last minute she plays her flute and it retreats.”

“I believe I’ve seen it once or twice before.” Alfred mused, coiling and uncoiling his fingers from around the wheel.

“Does your mom ever get worried it’ll bite you?” Bruce twisted to face Jerome.

“Not at all.” Jerome smiled.

To his surprise, the bird lived. Jerome stood corrected in his (apparently) cynical predictions. Bruce’s willpower won the day. He never saw Bruce happier. 

He faintly wondered if a proper death could bring Bruce the same joy, if Bruce was like him. Alfred bought ice cream for them on their way home, and Jerome never tried anything better. He thought he liked ice cream, but this…

“It’s gelato.” Bruce informed him upon his asking. Once the vet nursed the chick back to health, she told them it wouldn’t survive on its own without its mother, especially not through winter. Alfred and Bruce decided to keep it.

Jerome was pretty sure that stupid doctor’s opinion costed money. He knew the bird would cost even more.

“I want the bird.” Jerome pressed. He wanted to feed it to his mom’s snake alive. Bruce didn’t need to waste another second on a creature as tasteless as that. He had more important Bruce-things to worry about. 

“Could you take care of it though, Mr. Valeska?” Alfred asked, very prim and proper. Jerome rolled his eyes.

“Why would I need to do that?” He scoffed, glancing at the box that Bruce carried it in, along with the medicine he held in his other hand.

“It deserves a good life. All things do,” Bruce muttered, more to himself than anyone, “I think I’ll give it to my friend. She takes care of birds.”

Jerome didn’t get it. Bruce couldn’t fix jack by helping one nasty bird. The other two birds still rotted in their own nest, left this one alone and miserable. Hell, thousands of birds that didn’t migrate in time probably dropped dead in Gotham in the last few months alone. Why did one bird matter?

It didn’t make any sense to waste another second on it. Bruce’s time was precious, more than anyone else’s. A bird didn’t deserve it. Besides, Jerome wanted it. The bird. Maybe some more of Bruce’s time. 

“I found it first.” He argued. Bruce narrowed his eyes at him.

“You tried to hurt them more than once. Why would I give it to you?”

“It’s just a bird Brucie, ever had chicken for dinner?” He half-sneered, half-smiled through. Bruce’s brows furrowed.

“I won’t let you have it Jerome.” He looked pissed. Jerome pouted, but shot Bruce a wide grin when Bruce glanced over at him. Jerome found it. He _ deserved _ it. His thoughts were cut short by Alfred’s abrupt stop. Despite already having his attention, Jerome tapped Bruce’s shoulder. 

“Hey, ah, between you and me, your butler isn’t so great at driving.” Bruce just frowned at him.

x

The circus stopped coming quarterly, doubling the space between its visits to Gotham. Every act in between seeing Bruce felt meaningless.  
  
The apple didn’t fall far from the tree and Jerome needed his fix. 

They met again eight months later. Jerome discovered that Bruce grew into his looks (much to his pleasure). When they wrestled, he felt lean muscle.

At nine, Lila told him and Jeremiah that at some age they would feel differently about girls. He didn’t care for girls or boys or people in general. 

But he liked Bruce. Really liked Bruce. Liked his slender nose and his dark, clever eyes. They stared at each other, unblinking, from where Bruce pinned him. Distracted, Bruce licked his lips and Jerome took the opportunity to kick him down the hill. He laughed as Bruce crashed down its side.

He rolled after him, face smacking into Bruce’s stomach. Bruce wheezed, and Jerome didn’t give him a chance to recover because he immediately crawled over him.

“Hi.” He whispered in Bruce’s ear. He could feel the heat radiating off his face. He pulled back and grinned his too-wide grin.

Bruce didn’t fight dirty, didn’t rely on any cheap tricks to gain the upper hand, no matter how much it inconvenienced him, so Jerome could hardly worry about any foul play when Bruce’s lips met his.

x  
“You doin’ alright over there?” He asked as his mom vomited into the sink. She glared at him, red-eyed, all swollen, green, “You don’t sound too good.” She tried to retort, but more bile erupted from her throat. Her fingers slipped around the edges of the sink, smeared sweat and saliva everywhere.  
  
Despite it all, she scowled at him.

“Wait until Owen gets here, before you get smart with me.” Jerome swayed where he sat, back and forth, like a pendulum, smiled ear to ear. _ Not again. Not by _ her _ design. _Lila wretched again. He picked up the broken bottle she ordered him to clean and sat in plain view of the window, waited for Romeo to show so he could wrap up the final act. He whistled while he waited, some blaring circus anthem he heard around the animal tent. 

Lila seemed to short circuit, her eyes scanned him again and again as she paced around the caravan, clenching her gut. She tried to sing her usual tunes, charm him away from striking, from finally _ squeezingbreaking _their necks. He thought about Bruce’s lips on his, thought about glass in Owen’s throat, about shutting his mother up. 

But Owen didn’t come that night, or the next. Alphonse did when Lila grew bored enough waiting for him. Jerome did too, at some point (and Lila let out a breath he didn’t know she held). 

To Alphonse’s fortune, he minded his own, didn’t go near Jerome after one glance. _ Oh he’s fine, He’s fine, _ Lila fussed, _ just do your thing. _

They kept quiet on the other side of the curtain that night. 

x

“It’s huge now, and friendly.” Bruce said, matter-of-factly. He held a square of film that housed the image of a fat, black bird. Jerome thought that made Bruce special, that he cared too much, kept track of the fatass bird for two straight years. On the contrary, Jerome hardly cared at all.  
  
He hummed. It sounded like angels singing when Bruce started to speak again, all he ever wanted to hear. 

“Alfred took me hiking a week ago and we found some abandoned gear. I wonder who left it there.” Bruce showed him pictures of a discarded tent, “Do you think it was a suicide? A murder? I didn’t see any signs of confrontation, but this strange residue was left all over the trees around the tent.” Bruce flipped through more of the film in his hands, “I investigated further and the locals said that normally meant suicide. I suppose it’s a custom.” Jerome loved the way Bruce talked, eloquent and collected. He brought a certain dignity to him.

“I guess so.” Jerome said at last. He pretended to examine one of the images, pretended to be interested in the mundane shots of yellow powder and powder, more powder. 

“Why do you think they did it?” Bruce asked. He dipped into Jerome’s space, wide-eyed.  
  
“I dunno. What would make _ you _want to kill yourself?” Jerome’s smile turned sharp without much warning. 

“I think I’ve been there before.” Bruce confessed. He spoke prim and clear, even as his voice wavered. Jerome’s breath hitched, his brows raised. Suddenly he saw and heard Bruce in full detail, the slow rise and fall of his chest and the dust that gathered on his otherwise perfect uniform, “It felt like I was alone… I didn’t know what else to do…” Jerome nodded slowly, “I wasn’t myself. Have you ever felt that way before?” Bruce tugged at his collar. 

Jerome simply marveled at the beautiful creature in front of him, so close to him, and placed his hand on Bruce’s in response. 

x

Jerome felt something brewing inside Bruce, since the day in the boutique, the first time he saw him after Bruce became an orphan. He wanted it, needed it. He needed Bruce to see what he saw, the real Bruce-- Jerome thought he must be in love, most days. Other days he wanted to just _ snap _ Bruce into shape. He sighed as Bruce’s fingers laced into his gloved ones, pulled Bruce to him and felt Bruce’s pulse under his free hand. He could just _ coil around _ and-  
  
“What are you doing?” Bruce asked, his lips tugging up. His eyes kept flickering to Jerome’s mouth. They hadn’t kissed since that day under the tree. 

Bruce turned fifteen today, been real off in the head (or worse at faking he wasn’t). His birthday was, after all, the anniversary of his parents’ death. He chose Jerome over some hollowed-out rich-boy bash. 

And of course he did. Only Jerome understood Bruce, knew him inside out from his flesh to his cartilage. 

Jerome discovered Bruce’s lineage a bit late in the game, through some chatter at the circus or some excerpt in a newspaper. He drank up anything he could find about Bruce now, but Bruce Wayne, his beloved... Jerome may be the only person on earth who loved him for what he truly was. 

“What do you think of the crime spree downtown? What do you think triggered it?” Jerome shut him up with a fairytale kiss.  
  
“People are like that.” Jerome answered through breaths, once he pulled back, “They play their little games, smile at each other in the markets. Ask the neighbor _ ‘how’re the kids Paulie?’ _ through those little white picket fences. All they _ really _want is to slice and dice the little brats. Watch their manager bleed through the eyes, fling their wife into a busy street.” He smiled as he nipped at Bruce’s bottom lip, “y’know?” Bruce pulled away. 

“No, I don’t.” 

“Oh Bruce, you’re the same way, deep down. We all are.” Jerome whispered, eyes glowed, “But you see them. _ We _ see them.” He pressed his hand into Bruce’s belt, where his palm scraped up against a sheathed blade. He dug his wrist into it ( _ gotcha!) _. Bruce’s eyes hardened. 

“They can be good.” He pressed with some ridiculous resolve. Jerome’s laugh rang high pitched and eerie, cut the air. 

“Alright, Brucie, alright.” He tangled his fingers through Bruce’s hair, waved the knife in Bruce’s face, and kissed him nice and hard, “Happy birthday, darling.” 

x

The last day the circus stopped in Gotham, Bruce told him the bird died. Its wings got caught in the cage. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is pretty old and i know gotham ended like 87 years ago but I've read all the batjokes in the archive and thought I ought to fish this out and contribute.


End file.
